


But It Goes to Waste

by detritius



Series: Wincestverse (Originally posted on tumblr) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series. Sam attempts to come to terms with life at Stanford, particularly life without his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But It Goes to Waste

**Author's Note:**

> Despite my best efforts, I haven't finished anything new in awhile, although I promise, I have been writing. I have ~18,000 words of under-edited rambling across several fics and four different fandoms to show for it. But I'm not sure when any of that will be done, and I want to keep this account active, so I figured, it's the beginning of a new school year, now's as good a time as any to put up some of the Supernatural fic I wrote when I was in college. Enjoy?
> 
> Title is from "Fix You" by Coldplay.

Rain lashes against the windows, and the storm shakes the floors. It’s dark. The electricity cut off hours ago, sending almost everyone down to Commons, clutching batteries and flashlights and portable CD players. Probably, there’s a party in full swing right now. He could join, if he wanted to. But he’s not in the mood for posturing and blaring hip-hop and drunk girls slurring out half promises. He likes the quiet and that’s hard to come by around here. Not to mention privacy. Since he’s been here, the dorms have never been so empty. He’s taking this chance for what it is.

Lying naked over the covers, his hand moving languorously, he lets out a grateful little moan. So good to be able to do this, spread out, the warm, still air hanging heavy on his skin. So much better than one hand moving furtively under the covers, the other in his mouth, stifling everything. He moans again, louder, relishing that freedom. No need to hide anything tonight. There’s no one here.

His free hand is restless, skimming along the inside of his thigh, trailing up his chest, over his muscles, dipping into his mouth. He winds his fingers into his hair, and  _oh, God, yes!_  It’s almost like someone is here with him, and that pushes him right to the edge. He’s taken his time with this, teasing himself like he hasn’t since he’s been here, but he can’t hold on much longer. He speeds up, gasping now, his mind running through a jumble of images that could be anyone, anything. He can’t focus enough to see more than mismatched body parts: tits, asses, legs, lips, a flash of green eyes. No faces. This doesn’t mean a damn thing to him. He comes like an afterthought. Practiced as anything, he catches it in a tissue and wipes it away. No spots on the sheets. And it’s over. He sighs. He’s not what you’d call satisfied, but it’s something, right? He figures he could go down there and get laid for real, probably without too much effort, but he decides against it. A heavy lassitude is starting to settle over him, weighing his limbs; getting up seems next to impossible. He pulls the top sheet up over himself, one hand curling protectively over his junk, and he closes his eyes. Yeah, he could pull on some clothes and yell over the music and do his best to score. But not tonight. Not now. He’d rather just lie here and listen to the rain. It reminds him of home.

Which should be a joke, really. He never stayed anywhere long enough for it to be home. But still. How many times did they drive out in a storm like this, quiet in the Impala for once, radio off so Dad could concentrate on the road? He listened to the rain then, too, passed the miles that way. Raced raindrops down the windshield, watched the gray landscapes slide into one another, open fields into hills into mountains. Tried to ignore Dean when he got bored and restless. God, he’d hate this, if he were here right now. He’d want to know what the hell Sam’s doing alone in his room when there’s free booze to be drunk and sorority chicks taking their tops off. He has to smile at that, although he’d slug Dean for it if he was really here. All class, his brother.

It’s second nature to him now, to just know what Dean would do or say or think if he was here. He doesn’t fight it anymore. It hurt so much at first, thinking about him, but it’s bearable, now. It’s almost like he has a little piece of Dean here with him, looking over his shoulder, watching his back, still. It’s a good delusion. Better than thinking they’ll never see each other again, anyway. Best not to think on that, if he doesn’t want to spend another night like the first one.

Though it’s been awhile now and the days have bled together, he still remembers that night clear as anything. The room was dark, like now, his roommate’s congested snore punctuated by his own quick, panicked breaths. He remembers the tears slipping out from under his eyelids, hard as he tried to stop them, but other than his breathing, he didn’t make a sound. All he could think was  _if Dean was here, he’d know something was wrong. Even if I tried to hide it, he’d know. Big brother instincts. If he was here, he’d tell me everything was gonna be okay. Get under the covers with me. Hold me until I fell asleep_. And the more he thought it, the more he ached for it to be real. He was shaking with suppressed sobs by the time he realized, no, that’s not what would happen. Maybe when they were both kids, but not now.  _Man up, Sam_. That’s what Dean would say, if he was here.  _There’s no use in crying, you know that_. Probably he’d give him a weapon or something, say  _if there’s something out there, you shoot it. If not, shut up and go to sleep_. And that’s how he finally calmed himself down, twisting an imaginary .45 between his hands and thinking of Dean faking sleep beside him, turned away but still listening. He realized if Dean really was here with him, he’d want him to get through it on his own. That’s how he made it through the night.

It’s been easier since then, a little every day, but thinking about it now, the nagging pain in his chest swells up again, fresher than it’s been in weeks. Maybe he doesn’t like the quiet as much as he thinks.

He tries to go back to listening to the rain, but it’s bitter, now. Some of those days on the road, he remembers, if they made an early start, the two of them would huddle together in the back seat, half asleep. Dean’s body was warm and heavy against his, unguarded in the midtones between night and morning. He would put his arm around Sam, sometimes, or rest his head on his shoulder, however he was most comfortable. Those quiet mornings in the rain, he’d murmur unmelodically to himself, strings of song lyrics. He could go whole albums sometimes, before he got tired of it. Quickly as he got bored, it wasn’t hard for him to amuse himself. As long as he had a little music or a comic book or cable, he was always okay. Sam wishes it had been that easy for him.

Maybe that’s why he’s the one who left.

And he gets to wondering where they are now, which is the last thing he ever wants to think about. Gone. That’s all there is to it. It doesn’t matter what city they’re in, what state. Probably still in the country, unless Dad managed to get him and Dean a better set of fake passports. Maybe it’ll even be easier for them to travel, now, without him wandering around in Customs, looking guilty. But this kind of speculation won’t do him any good. There’s no way to know what highway they’re on or what they’re hunting. Where they’re bedding down for the night.

He knows, suddenly, that Dean’s with someone right now. He doesn’t know how he knows it - maybe it’s just statistics. Or maybe he’s convinced himself that Dean’s screwing around a lot more these days, now that there’s nothing but an empty bed and the quiet he never could stand waiting for him back at the hotel. It’s better, somehow, if they both have to do these things to get by. Still. Indefinably, he knows that somewhere, in the back of the Impala maybe, there’s some faceless girl and his brother. He doesn’t see her at all. All he sees is Dean, the liquid, rolling motion of his shoulders as he moves, his naked back, his big, sure hands, his profane lips, whispers against heated skin.

He feels a soaring ache low in him, and he groans. Jerks himself slightly, prolonging the sensation. He realizes he’s already half hard. When did that happen? He’s been so lost in thought.

He closes his eyes, lets himself drift again. He tries to distance himself from the thought of Dean with some waitress, from Dean’s crooked, inviting smile, the sureness of his gaze, the sounds he’d make, low, deep, and desperate. Sounds he remembers from growing up, overheard and inevitable, whenever they shared the same room. Dean probably thought he was being quiet, or maybe he just didn’t care. He only ever did it when he thought Sam was asleep, though. If he wanted to hear, he’d have to lie still, breathe deep, wait it out.

His fingers are stroking, restless, and he realizes this is the wrong line of thought. God, so wrong. Worse to wish he had images to go with this particular memory, not just sounds echoing out of the dark. No. He flattens his hands down by his sides and goes back, revises this train of thought.

He’d actually fall asleep most of the time, waiting, but sometimes he held out. It was curiosity - just that, wanting to understand the concert of stuttering breaths and sharp, deep groans, breathy gasps. He’d thought it was pain, at first. Maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong. He wanted to know if it was endemic, if it would end up happening to him, too. And when it did, well, he made sure Dean was never in the same room, awake or asleep. He waited until he was in the shower with the water running, or until one of the nights when he was alone. Always on those nights - fast, hard, resentful.  _Dean’s getting off_ , he’d thought,  _Why shouldn’t I?_  And he did, spitting curses half the time, biting his fist, shouting. He doesn’t remember now why he was so angry. If felt better than anything - the whole bed to himself, spread wide on it like he is now, the intensity, the violence, burning in his blood. The thought, lingering, that when Dean gets back, he’ll slam him against the wall, face-first. Demand some kind of answers, like there are any. Lean in close to him and… and…

He gasps, cries out. He can’t help it anymore. His dick is straining hard against his stomach, and the images in his head are just making it worse. He takes hold of himself, too roughly, like he can punish himself for thinking this. Go back. Revise.

He never would have hurt Dean, not really, even if he came back stinking of sex and strange perfume. He never really wanted to hurt him. Just push him up against the wall, gripping his wrists so he can’t fight back. He’d try, cursing and panting, his whole body writhing under Sam’s, but Sam knows he’d have the upper hand here, and sooner or later, Dean would have to realize that. He’d go still, trembling a little from exertion, and he’d bite out  _Okay, what do you want?_  

Sam would lean down, letting his hot breath ghost across his brother’s neck, making him shiver again, now from apprehension.  _I wanna know_ , he’d say. Take a step closer, letting Dean feel his heat, the looming bulk of his body.  _Who were you with tonight, Dean?_

 _Just some girl_ , he’d whisper into the wall.  _God, Sammy, what does it matter?_

He’d kick Dean’s legs further apart in answer, spreading him out. Another step closer. The slightest brush of his hard, hard cock up against Dean’s ass.

Dean would start twisting in his grip again, trying to turn and look him in the face.  _Sam, what the hell?_

Sam would close the last bit of distance between them then, bearing down with all his weight, pinning Dean flat to the wall. He’d be able to feel his brother’s heart hammering frantically as he ground down against him, making him feel every aching inch.  _You did this to me_ , he’d say.  _What are you gonna do about it?_

No. No, that’s even worse. He tries to stop himself jerking up into his hand, and when he can’t, he drags his nails lightly down his shaft, hoping the pain will clear his head. He gasps out, moans for it, but he does feel a little saner. And he makes himself remember back to what really happened all those years ago, on the first of those nights. 

He got off, a thousand messed up things running through his head. He fell back on the bed, not knowing what to feel, and fell asleep before he ever worked it out. Hours later, he heard the door open and close, and then felt Dean slip into bed beside him. He was fifteen then, still smaller than Dean, and skinny. The two of them could still share a bed without touching each other, overlapping into each other’s spaces. Still, Dean was so close beside him, close enough to feel his warmth. He only smelled like soap and himself, all traces of the night’s activity gone, and Sam wondered, achingly, if he had imagined the whole thing. Maybe Dean had just been out late hustling poker or pool, taking care of all of them. Maybe he’d just needed some time to himself. Maybe… But then Dean curled closer to him in sleep, and he didn’t even care anymore. He leaned back, resting his head on his brother’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and sighed. Dean stirred, the slight sound waking him, and saw Sam looking up at him with wide eyes. “You okay, Sammy?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Now.” Maybe his voice was a little petulant.

Dean tried to ruffle his hair, like he was still a kid, tried to smile. “Come on, Sam, don’t be like that.” But Sam swatted his hand away and gave him a not-taking-any-of-your-bullshit look, and Dean sighed. “You didn’t like me leaving.”

“What if something happened?” Sam demanded. “What if something came to get me while you were gone?”

Dean rested his hand on the sawed off shotgun leaning up against the wall. “Think you would’ve handled it okay,” he said, and Sam had to admit he was right.

“What about you, then? What if the thing Dad’s hunting got you cornered while you were alone? What if we got a call and had to go without you? What if -”

“Fine,” Dean said, cutting him off. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone.” Sam remembers the impatience in his brother’s voice, remembers how scared it made him. He didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want to make Dean hate him. That’s why the next time he left, he didn’t say anything.

But this first time, he couldn’t let it go. “We need to stay together,” he begged. Then, softly, “You’re all I got.” He knew it was selfish, but if there was one thing he could say to make his brother think twice about leaving him, it was that.

“I know,” Dean said. He was quiet awhile. “We can’t always be together,” he said. “You know that. There’s things we have to do on our own.” He ran a hand through Sam’s hair, and grudgingly, this time Sam let him. “You gotta understand,” he said, begging too. “I’ll always come back for you, Sammy. I’m never gonna leave you.”

Sam’s little heart sped up. “Promise?” he asked.

“Promise.” Dean gathered him up in his arms, the two of them an adolescent tangle of elbows and knees, and maybe he really wasn’t out screwing around, because he wasn’t loose and sated like Sam was. He was all tense, like someone who worked too hard, even at nineteen, and it was only when Sam’s arms came up around him he started to unwind. Sam remembers that, remembers his brother’s weary body relaxing into his arms. “I’m here now,” Dean said. “And I’m not going anywhere. Now get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam whispered, leaning his head against his brother’s shoulder and drifting off to sleep again. He vaguely remembers a kiss to his forehead, a murmured goodnight. He felt warm and safe and loved. But now…

Now, in the present, rain battering against the windows, all he feels is exposed and horribly alone. His hand is still on his dick, and all he can do is remember. Dean’s gentle reassurances, his familiar scent, the closeness of his body. He aches for that, now, every day of his life. Every minute. He’d give anything for the barest touch of his brother’s hand. Even now. No - especially now. For a second, he imagines Dean here with him, sprawled out on the bed beside him, guiding him with a strong, calloused hand covering his, whispering  _Come on, Sammy_. And then he can’t help what happens. “Dean,” he whispers. And he comes over his hand. Though he catches himself, though he’s as neat and practiced as ever, the sensation isn’t the same. There’s a deep, bright calm welling inside him, a more than physical fucked-out feeling he’s never had before. It leaves him shaking, and he pulls the rest of the blankets over himself, suddenly cold. He feels both whole and broken, his body satisfied and exhausted, his heart aching for more. But he’s the one who left. He’s the one who broke that promise. 

Wherever Dean is now, he’s probably gotten off, too, and he’s probably lying panting and sweaty, just like Sam is. He wishes, more than anything, that they were together right now. He imagines wiping the sweat off Dean’s face, his bare, glistening body. But more than that, he imagines their arms around one another as they drift off, just like before. There’s more of both of them now, and more between them, but that wouldn’t matter. They’d be together. The strains of the last few months would ease off them and they’d take comfort from one another. Dean would lean in and whisper,  _I’m never gonna leave you_ , and this time, Sam would make a promise of his own. His eyes drop closed, and he imagines Dean’s face, vulnerable as sleep overtakes him. And for just a second, before he slips into dreams himself, he can believe they’re together.


End file.
